After today, there’s just tomorrow. How did we get through April so fast?
For today’s prompt, take a line from one of your poems (preferably one of your April poems), make it the title of your poem today, and then, write the poem.
Here’s my attempt:
“unseen until after they’re spent”
moments without any longing
erase the hours but don’t make
anything better less lonesome
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Writing poetry is exciting, but the hard work of poeming is working through the revision process. The best way to work through this process is to workshop the poems with other poets, and that can be done with the Writer’s Digest 6-week course, Advanced Poetry Writing.
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Want some more poeming fun? Check out these previous Poetic Asides posts:
We dream dance
our troubles away
drift in a daze
Waiting reality reef
In dream, we escape
the day, memory loss
coping with routine
your ever blank glance
no longer seeing our faces.
We watch your daily trance,
where nothing changes
no new ideas emerge.
Each shattered thought a lance
and we dream dance.
Troubles multiply
compounded by the math impaired daughter
coping with taxes and beyond
each number each figure weigh
heavy on my mind as I struggle
to keep your finances from going astray.
I look at my unbalanced check book and life,
throw up my hands
and watch my hair going gray
keeping troubles away.
I wish I could escape
dream a little for me
must one down day,
watch your eyes glaze
and watch another nothing day.
Know that this is an eroding phase.
That the memories of today
will be the last leaf falling
deeper into a mind maze
as we drift in a daze.
Together we are locked
mind of youth
mind of age
linked for a rare brief
connected thought and then
it shatters again, thought leaf
falling again to the autumn disease.
Trees of your mind are shorn,
stolen by time thief
and I wait reality reef.
Only Yesterday
Was it yesterday?
I saw the light
within your eyes
slowly dim
until it died.
No words spoken,
a silent heart
sucked dry,
for love itself
that day did die.
The Power of That Spell
The one you attempted to cast on me,
Was a trine of indefinite power.
I escaped only with my innocence,
And a fragrant, blue aura of violets.
What If She Couldn’t Find The Broom
The gravity depends entirely
on whether said broom
was needed for crumbs under the table
in the late morning of a June day
or for transportation
at eight in the evening
on October thirty first.
Hopefully Spring
Will pop out
from this winter rollercoaster
that keeps coming back
like a bad dream
after too much
pizza.
Five minutes too old
Chartreuse flowers on the hill,
swimming in the meadow swill,
into this my blood stood still…
like winter’s chill
5 minutes too old.
The dancing of the sun’s delights,
pictures tall behind the nights,
deception lies before her sights…
and she still writes
5 minutes too old.
Serenade me till I sleep,
the moon shall hold me in it’s keep,
and if perchance I dream too deep…
Just let them weep
5 minutes too old.
The air has grown a bitter cold,
with beauty’s stories left untold,
there’s more to find in any fold…
Life to hold
5 minutes too old.
the asparagus are late
this year. so are the lilac
and narcissi, the wisteria
curling purple clusters
over my porch railing,
the rhubarb buried deep
in frosted earth.
but the asparagus!
my barometer of spring,
my hope for end
of winter’s bitter dark.
each morn I rush through
grass dew-wet to inspect
earth cracked, the primordial
stones belching forth
to make room for slim
spears of mauve and green
but only garlic weed stinks
the air, dandelion chokes
the earth’s furrows.
this worries me.
the asparagus are late
this year.
“the hunter in heart’s prey”
When fear abandons
a little pain devastates
Embrace the ruins
The first line is from the Express poem of April Challenge Day 17.
I am a beast that runs
but some run farther, faster.
I run in circles of convention
in the bright light of the early hour.
Sun blinds my eyes, nose points down the road,
feet turn where?
No, that’s from whence I came–
that’s where I was. I say let’s fly, let’s swim
somewhere, anywhere new. Another place with different dawns,
where herds of clouds stampede across the valleys,
where pebbled beaches fling their rocky arms out and embrace the ocean.
Here I am.
I am a beast that runs
on the inside
ever yearning, on the inside
ever striving.
Odysseus had nothing on me.
He traveled and battled across the far-flingen regions of Greece.
Coming home killed him—home,
where Penelope had had to stay.
Penelope, the good wife who remained home.
What if she, too, were the beast?
Maybe she was. Strongest woman on Earth, married to a
man who learned to live only away–
only far away. He learned in twenty years
how to survive
running.
But she was stronger—twenty years waiting,
running in place.
That’s what I do.
I run in the place where I am.
I am a beast that runs.
I had a hard time picking one line, so I went one further and also incorporated a line from a previous poem into each stanza
All The Pretty Girls
In Sunday dresses
unconsciously
flirting with the
soft movement of the
velveteen curves
of their shoulders
Never apart,
they glance at you
from under the
fanned fringes
of kohl blackened
eyelashes
nodding in
silent acquiescence,
too loud
laughter tinkling
in the noon day sun
You notice how
they linger,
their feet dragging
across the wet grass
pulling at every sucking step
You long to
for more, to fight
for their attention
unaware how it’s
all an act
how every night is
spent fighting off the
ghosts crouching in the dark
The ending startled me, which is, I guess, what you intended. Great imagery. Thanks for sharing.
Passin Through the Dark
On the road to
your heart were
many obstacles to
overcome
“Just an autonomous reaction”
This was not scripted
Not even expected
Wasn’t conceived in a torrents of thoughts
Just an uncontrollable motion
Just an errant reaction
It just happened
Wasn’t looking or searching
The dreams was on pause
The feeling long numb
You can’t always choose
The moment love is found
“Into the Statue of Liberty’s torch”
-KB
Sometimes I imagine
what life would be like
if I had decided to leave home
apply and go to NYU
lead a life of sophistication
become what I dared
to dream of becoming
instead of pursuing the path
of safety
and defining my own dreams
and discovering new destinies
within my reach.
Nonetheless,
I still have the potential
to leap–
no, soar–
into the stars,
nestled into the city skyline
amongst the flames of
Lady Liberty’s torch.
Very nice imagery here.Makes me think of Emma Lazarus’s line about the lamp lifted beside the golden door, illuminating the possibilities beyond one’s reach.
Sandy saw the zeroes
All that watching TLC finally paid off
When she saw the store clerk’s eyes rise
Who has time for diamonds when
Coupons are a poor girl’s best friend
The bags of fruit, veggies and seven
Mayonnaise jars didn’t cost a dime
Her smile was more of a shit eatin’ kind
Sandy loves and hates like a popcorn kernel
Spending her free time counting bristles on the ground
Except for when she runs out of sugar for her coffee
Then watch out world, this gal’s got the power
To level more than just a playing field
But no worries today, today is a good day
The sugar was on sale, with a double back guarantee
She’ll have no problem adding an extra teaspoon
To her cracked “Best Mom in the World” mug of Nescafe
Pretty Boy, They Called Him
Dimpled cheeks, skin of peach
he was their darling
baby boy
Neighbors oohed and ahed,
cooed in his ear,
so sweet, so sweet
Pretty Boy started school,
teacher’s pet on his first day,
he learned to play
Pretty Boy made a leap;
manhood stole the child.
How egotistical, they cried.
Poetic Asides
April Challenge – Day 29
Take a line from an April poem, make it the title,
and then write the poem.
“Manhood stole the child.” Love that line.
A MOMENT IN YOUR SKIN
I feel like I been rode hard and hung up dry.
Sumpin’ gotta give.
I’m fixin’ to go to church agin.
The one what got me some clothes
Fer free
‘n a crib fer baby Hollis.
Them folks is real nice.
Reeeel nice.
Pastor Dave was real proud’a me too.
I tole him I ain’t turned a trick in a week.
I’m proud of my own self, too.
But I ain’t fer sher how long I can be holdin’ out.
I mean — I ain’t above my raisin’,
After all.
(“A moment in your skin” from April 8th.)
I love this. It feels authentic, not just the lingo, but the sentiments.
Thank you so much. I must say, your encouragement out here has been nothing short of amazing. I, for one, am so grateful!
Thanks for saying that. It surely works both ways. I’m new to this entire scene, the Brewer blog, I mean, so this has been a revelation.
Maria, I like this voice. Who knew? It does read authentically right.
This isn’t a poem, but I just want to express my admiration and amazement at all of talent. It certainly is incredible that we have so many poets who are able to turn a simple prompt into pure genius. This has been a fun NaPoWriMo so far.
Have enjoyed your postings here very much!
I guess I’m the only one here who has no idea what a NaPoWriMo is. Sounds like a cookie.
Here you go, PressOn: http://www.napowrimo.net/
Oh, so that’s it! Lots of cookies. Thanks.
You have a poet’s brain: it DOES sound like a cookie!
My Flesh is Your Flesh Refined
Old man,
sitting in your chair
stuffed into your corner
sifting the cold whiskey
and colder ice
into your bearded face,
you are me
I see in your hands
the line that made me
and the line that forever
rest in yours,
curled around a
forgotten memory,
stagnated in a cool pond
and allowed to float.
It is in this spot, you and
I shall remain at odds,
housed under the same roof
that conjoined us.
This leaves me feeling cold; not for the writing, which is vibrant, but for the feeling it delivers.Intentionally, I presume. Very effective.
THE STARS ARE JUST BEYOND OUR REACH
——————————————————————-
We have our dreams,
We have our plans;
We can almost hold them
In our hands.
And yet they run through our fingers
Like sand on the beach.
The stars are just
Beyond our reach.
If I could jump
To grab just one,
The fabric of the universe
Would come undone.
Maybe it’s best
They’re where they are;
Beyond our reach
Is the closet star.
This is superb, in my opinion. I hear music in it.
From my poem, “Posts”
Had to twist them
Had to twist them
words like light bulbs
As I tried to make them see
the fears, the hope, the love
that swirl inside of me.
Great image.
Amen to that.
The Secrets I Told You
I want
them to gut you,
leave you hollow – aching…
to unfurl inside you like two
dark wings
and unravel your fragile seams.
I want you festering
like an old wound—
like me.
Wow!
Yes, for both the imagery and the use of the cinquain.
I get tired of the echo’s from the past
The persistent drumming, drumming
The reverberations vibrating through me
Slamming me
Screaming at me
Then that persistent whisper
“You can do better”
“It’s not enough”
“Try harder”
You can do bet ter, you can do bet ter
It is not e nough, it is not e nough
Try har der, try har der
The chant echos, echos, echos, echos
Drumming, drumming
Pounding, pounding
The reverberation from the past slamming me
Echos screaming “NOT ENOUGH”
Excellent job creating the sounds. Nice sensory language.
You’ve captured this and made me feel it with you. Well done.
Sounds like my brain–those thots are so hard to stifle.
Utter power here. Wonderful.
Blackness That Permeates
Moon is smothered
by deep clouds
But your moods
are darker still
Ooh–good one.
“End of Story”
Or is it?
Legendary –
that’s what they were.
Two mismatched souls
united by soft jazz and
smoky conversations
that lasted over 50 years
leaving behind those
who reflect their love
magnifying what was
into what is now -
making the story
never-ending!
Love it, especially the “soft jazz and smoky conversations.”
You Think It’s Going To Be a Simple Walk
When you start off at midnight just to walk down the block
before tuning in, you think that it will be a simple walk.
You wear night clothes and flip flops planning to unwind,
breathe the heavy humid air, and maybe hear
the barred owl that often hunts along the creek.
But then the jerk throws a beer bottle out his truck
window. It shatters at your feet and you stand stunned
wondering what you had done to trigger such rage.
Was it the torn t-shirt and lack of underwear? Did you
offend his fashion sense? The glass sparkles at your feet
under the street light and you suddenly feel like running
straight into the universe, into that black hole that hums
57 octaves below middle C, just as the Hindus always knew.
And you think, in your outrage, you just might hear it
as it blows through your head, slamming out thoughts
of vengeance leaving clear, sweet harmony and the echoing call
of a predatory owl, hunting along the creek.
Wow! This is full of stark imagery, back and forth.
Before I Knew You, Life Was Uncertain
Before I knew you, life was uncertain
pain was everyday, life was completely grey
Before I knew you, life was uncertain
darkness surrounded me, terror was my life
Before I knew you, life was uncertain
confusion plagued me, the struggle engulfed my soul
Before i knew you,life was uncertain
I didn’t truly know what love was, not until the day I met you
Before I knew you, life was uncertain
day after day, night after night, minute after minute, second after second
Before i knew you, life was uncertain
now that I have you life is definitely a blessing.
From the only poem I’ve written this year based on the mechanical prompt: the line- direction to nowhere
Direction to Nowhere
As soon as the words “I’m going to the store” are loosed from my lips
I turn into a volcano with great rumbles of swirling lava
churning beneath my surface.
Where I want to go is far away.
Maybe the coast to a seaside shanty on a remote stretch of beach
where only long time locals live and I will
become one of them.
Maybe the mountains to a cottage hidden in the valley below
with great oaks to shelter me
from life’s storms.
Where I go is nowhere I want to be.
Love this one.
Yes
A line from “I am more than this”. Inspired, in part, by all the horrific “you deserve rape” stuff I’ve been seeing. It’s appalling to me that the way a woman dresses or looks could ever be “asking for it.”
LOVELINESS THAT HIDES
Behind the burka
is a face
too lovely
Beneath the skirt
is a treat
too tempting
Between his legs
is a beast
too savage
to control
Fear Makes the Possible Impossible
(another shadorma)
Love, afraid
To accept it, to
Long for its
Sweet embrace
Past hurts hinder future love
Hurdles thrive on fear
“Outside the Institute, a New Painting”
Big Sandburg shoulders–husky, brawling–bowed
by post-modern. Freight-handler tracks are now
a plaza where two jumbo glass-block screens
project Chicago faces. Friendly mouths
spew water. Nothing fearsome, ugly, prayer
inducing: gargoyles celebrate good cheer,
with children splashing in cascading wet
that’s chlorinated. This new downtown’s lean.
The sunrise towels steam from mirrored panes
and buildings bench press sky with steel-beam strength.
Worn seams are better hidden: suit-tie men
flock gem-stoned walks, no painted women lure
fresh farm boys. Parkside daisies wear thick lashes.
Would Chi-city’s poet call tech hunger his?
The title comes from the first line of the second stanza of a WD April poem I wrote concerning Grant Wood’s “American Gothic” in the Art Institute of Chicago. This poem borrows a few images from one of Carl Sandburg’s most famous poems, “Chicago.”
B Peters
Excellent. And I remember that line well.
Great!
“When spring came it melted”
when spring came
it melted my heart
cold so long
forgotten
and then rejuvenation
until snow once more
Wayne L Murphy 4/29/13
Okay Robert, I took your challenge a step further: Both the title and the poem itself are composed of lines from my poems from this month. In other words, I wrote a cento, using lines from twenty of my April poems (including the title).
How Complex You Are
Okay,
I’ll tell you unequivocally,
Nature: I love and hate you.
I’m dopey enough to tell you how I feel.
We’ve breezed through laughter,
slogged through tears,
promises, engagements, hearts,
casting aspersions, doubts, accusations
when you betrayed me. Still I held back rain.
Pessimism loves a vacuum.
The ants are in the peonies again.
Ghost-faced owl dives, curls talons.
Please keep your wrath at bay -
we can’t let the dark possibles dictate us.
Sun plus warm equals melt -
then take a walk, admire daffodils.
Let’s go on a holiday to the borderline.
Our bodies respond with madness,
like a town crier on Doomsday,
lips puffed beyond the natural ,
with fireworks of purple.
This is great and I bet it was a lot of fun to put together
I really like this one. The images really juxtapose nicely.
What an amazing job you did! I can’t believe how easily this flows.
ditto
Great prompt, thanks: http://natasa-summerblues.blogspot.com/2013/04/a-concise-serbian-english-dictionary.html
I get jealous when you laugh
Across the town square
I hear you laughing
If I was paranoid (like they say I am)
I would assume
you know I can hear
You must know
I am in the vicinity
And you laugh to let me know
You still find people amusing
Just not me
I would have liked if you put on the fourth line
If I was paranoid (like they all say I am)
A subtle way to indicate that you’re paranoid.
This reminds me of a book I read once – makes me think of Italy
OUCH.
Exactly
In Stillness, Listening to Words
She tries capturing
True essence of the right phrase
To evoke response
Love this, Valerie.
This keeps coming back like a song.
A Guitar Could Say Things
A guitar could say things
I could not.
Smart but stupid,
educated,
volatile,
TNT looking for a fuse.
Enter the guitar.
Like butter in
a pan sauce,
The finishing touch.
The backdrop of music
made expression possible,
smoothed the lumps.
From fractious to fine
in six easy strings.
EXCELLENT. So creatively written … I especially like the final statement.
Oh, yeah.
Be His Great Escape
There was a movie
a long time ago
where the hero was imprisoned
and broke free on a motorcycle.
He left behind his friends, knowing
that some of them will make it
their own paradise,
and knowing that others
will burn in their own hells.
But that was a long time ago.
Times are simpler now than the
background painted Hollywood.
Be his great escape
and forever shall he ride
into you,
discovering new parts of you
you thought at one point may
have been lost to the barbed wire fence
and the bygone rusted silos.
Be his great escape
and find that the last touch you feel
against your skin will be the salt
of pure sweat and
when he looks to the window
he will see you as his
final paradise.
Such a compelling picture. The phrase, “bygone rusted silos,” echoes for me.
Wonder if anyone reads all these! This poem takes a line from a previous poem of mine — I challenge you to find it! — and extends it into a new poem inserting several words in Gaelige and in German.
small as a sand bur
insidious seed husk
the bare foot beware
tá sé go dona, bad
and yes, you could
step on an Irish one
I did not, buíochas
le Dia agus Muire
but no fear a foot
might meet fangs
for buíochas le St. Pat
Erin’s been de-snaked
haben Sie gehört?
teufelskralle
devil’s claw
in German so
you’d best
aufpassen
and snakes?
in august ‘09
a British tourist’s
big toe felt the fang
of a poisonous one
in a Bavarian market
briefly hospitalized she’s
okay, dank ist zum Gott
“hitting SNOOZE” (from Day 23)
beep-beep-beep-beep
No! I need more sleep,
So, I’ll just hit SNOOZE.
It’s quite okay,
Because today,
I have some time to lose.
Nine minutes pass,
The alarm sound blasts,
Once again I refuse.
This cycle repeats:
SNOOZE-sleep, SNOOZE-sleep…
The hour hand moves.
Now it’s thirty past eight,
Oh no! I’m gonna be late!
What did I do?
The alarm had stopped
Because I hit OFF
Instead of hitting SNOOZE!
This was fun to read.
Since the prompt for day 23 was to write a trilet and that challenge is the source of my line, had to make it a triolet too.
So Here I Sit In April Rain
So here I sit in April rain
the maples’ boughs fringed with red
Waiting for spring to come again
So here I sit in April rain
Eager for bluebirds’ dazzling skein
of song knit with breezy thread
So here I sit in April rain
the maples’ boughs fringed with red
alana
Gorgeous, Alana.
So pretty! I’m a knitter and I’d never think of that! I love how every poet sees so differently.
Superb. That description of bluebird song rings so true.
One Salty, Summer Day
When the wind was light
One salty, summer day
The sun freckled her nose
Her back, as she walked away
She wandered along the shore
In search of the perfect shell
One that held secrets
One that she could tell
In the foam of the receding tide
At last she found it there
A shell, polished from waves
A secret-keeper rare
She brought it to her lips
As her story she revealed
It caught the words she said
She thought she would be healed
As far as she was able
She threw that shell into the deep
Yet, she could not walk away
She then began to weep
She stood for many moments
She knew what she must do
Forever in the ocean
Forever in the blue
Secrets now were gone
Footprints washed from sight
The moon began to rise
One salty, summer night
This makes me think of a song; it feels sort of like a summer Stardust.
My toes are soundless against the night
My heels never touch the hardwood floor,
the quietest tap dance across a room to
sneak a glass of water, a small snack from
a foreign kitchen. Open cabinets to look
for a glass and find a shelf of wallets,
a lazy susan with keychains jingling softly
as I turn it. The fridge is barren, save
an orange and a container of milk. The freezer
holds white paper wrapped slabs of meat
stickered with names in a red marker:
Natalie, 3/11. Kendra, 12/11. Audrey, 7/12.
You want me to find these. You want me to run.
I want to piece these girls back together,
want to know what you did with their faces.
I will not be your next meal, your next deer
to chase through the wooded acres behind your
house. This isn’t a movie and I’m proficient
with knives. I light a candle and set your
dining room table, fold napkins with precision,
pour two glasses of wine. I slip your necktie
around my neck, sit bare on the cold wooden
chair and wait for you, cleaver in hand.
creepy!
Ohmigosh. Chills!!
For me, the words, “proficient” and “precision” encapsulate the cold anger this gives off. Very effective writing.
“Acorns fall far”
Becca Auerbach spun this conjecture:
newly born, the oceans looked wavelessly
at the ancient stars whose light collected
in water clear as infant air. The sea-
bottom gleamed with far distant sun spectra.
Now the liquid’s rough and clouded, and we
think the depths devoid of light. No, she gasped.
The deepest floors flash disco-ball fairy
sprites and sparks, brighter than Vegas. The caps
of waves in moonlight bespeak the glow-flecked
basements. She rocked back in her chair and clasped
her teacup. We sat quietly a spell,
willing to unshoulder Newton’s apple
and let it roll away after her tell
ended; and we looked around at our gray
fringes and lined faces as the sun fell;
and Alan chuckled and rasped, “Well, well, well.”
She’s a random survival
An anomolous statistic of the Holocaust
Who walks through the Canadian mall holding more pain
Than the rest of the patrons combined will ever feel
When it’s her turn to give her opinion
On the latest book our club has read
I watch her eyes glisten as she speaks
Lamenting the tragedies
All novels have sad endings
Someone once said
Deeply emotive. Excellent.
Yes.
Poem a day #29 is a response to prompts from NaPoWriMo and Poetic Asides: 1) write a poem using five words from another language, and (2) write a poen using a lie from another poem written this month.
Always cracked and never clean
the glasses lying sur son table
Allez a la chambre where I sleep
and you will find shards of glee
Les chevaliers are cantering by
soleil bleached kitchen curtains
charged with dusky evening breezes
Can’t be mended, can’t be wiped
mais je pense que je t’aime toujour.
IF I COULD GO BACK IN TIME
If I could go back in time
When ancient languages
Some asleep some now not known
Were sung in mellifluous
Poetic verse
I’d see an old man
Along an ocean’s shore
The surf a-rumbling
A thousand roars
By campfire ablaze
This old patriarch sits
Telling stories
In mellifluous verse
In softened tones
He’d whisper we’d sing
Rhythmic poetry
In gentle verse and voice
Ancient poetry
We would joyfully sing
I love this. It sets a scene of how poem began, or so it seems to me.
This one took me a little longer because (a. It’s the last week of the semester, so they’re beating a path to my office door; (b. I decided to make the whole poem out of lines from my April poems. If it seems a little disconnected, that’s why!
Practice Kisses
They aren’t thinking of time now,
peeking through her window blinds,
as we delivered practice
kisses,
fragile as a moth’s wing,
nibbling on their edges,
as if no one would choose
familiar laughter,
I now read like laugh lines.
leaving sometimes, only a trace,
the smile I know you saved for me.
you can’t read mine
I eavesdropped on their talk, pure poetry
that incessant hum, that odd mating song
a medley fit only for porches,
the lyrics you can’t quite forget
if it lasts the night or not.
This is masterful; very few disconnects that i can see or hear.
I like the way you fit it all together!
I agree. The disconnects work to create suggestions within the gaps.
You and Bruce! Bless your heart. Masterful, for sure!
great idea, Nancy, and it works just fine.
Nancy, this is wonderful. I too took lines from all my poems but left it dangling on office word.
Some Pomegranates, to Begin?*
“Some guy just asked me if my dog was a pomegranate. I said, ‘Umm no that would be a fruit.’ LOL.” ~Chanel Dudley
The pomegranate is a fruit.
The Pomeranian? Canine.
The difference I will now define:
a pomegranate tree takes root.
As for the dog, he’s awfully cute.
Whereas a fruit’s from tree or vine,
the Pomeranian’s canine.
The pomegranate is a fruit.
To say much more is kind of moot:
But, here’s the thing On fruit you dine.
A fuzzy dog? Most draw the line.
Besides, a dog’s more fun, to boot.
The pomegranate’s just a fruit.
###
* From my poem, ‘Gourmand‘
A Pomeranian, though, is about the size of a fruitcake. I loved this, as I’ve come to love most of your work.
Wild Cherry
All alone, you stand there proudly,
visibly declaring loudly,
bedecked in your bridal glory,
you are first to tell your story.
Meanwhile all around you stand stark
other trees, barren, bare-branched, dark,
save for some sign of lime green
leaves emerging that can be seen.
Your confetti blown by the breeze
settles at the base of those trees
in a drifting, shifting pillow,
with catkins shed by a willow.
Will your flowers turn to berries?
Will they form sweet, ruby cherries?
Will they survive April rainfall?
Will birds come your young fruits to steal?
When I come back here in the Fall
Will there be any sign at all
of your former bridal glory?
Will you call out again to me
with pride, or will there simply be
a lonely, bereft little tree,
shedding her dying rustic leaves,
with a sad unfinished story?
This is lovely. Thanks for sharing it. I love that little tree, now.
Thanks. It was a lone little cherry tree flowering amid a whole wood of bare trees that caught my attention on my dog walk the other day.
Reapply for (Y)our Poetic License
The only
real requirements
are time and
awareness,
a desire to juggle words
and some elbow grease.
Just breathe deep
and make up your mind.
Try to write,
every day.
Dig deep. Try being honest.
Then the words are yours.
(Line from Poets Express: http://dianaterrill.wordpress.com/2013/04/17/express/)
This whole April has been a sort of reapplication, come to think on it. Your last line is, for me, both encouragement and reproach.
The words ARE yours. ^_^ And you use them well, indeed.
excellent!
And I, a foregone confusion of flesh and bone
sometimes get lost in verses.
Light between groves in the forest
use my petals like a scratch pad
when I’m reconditioned to wildflower
among stones and snacking bees.
At times petrichor rises. Earth scents,
after clouds have had a good cry,
cleave to me like spooned
humidity between lovers.
I then get pulled away,
but the roots hold tight
to their ground.
My offering to the table of finished
work is me standing in a container
filled with about ¾ water
just a bit hunched over.
“Clouds have had a good cry”; such a wonderful phrase. I’m tempted to steal it.
Thank you.
From April 1st, “Foolishness”
INTERTWINED AS ROOTS
Poets’ minds
Individual
Varied views
Unique take
April brings us all to be
intertwined as roots
glad to have been intertwined with all here!
Me too!
This is interesting. I would have thought of branches expanding, not roots intertwining. Thanks for the insight.
You call me complex, when I uncomplicate
Simple, as simple can be
She untangled their misery
But when it came to her
They failed to be astir
And so they said, she is complex
That she had no reflex
Yet what they failed to see
Is their own apathy
To someone so simple,
As simple can be
Utterly simple, utterly lovely.
Way Too Black for Blues
(from Black and Blue, Day 10)
His body curves around his worn guitar
like tree trunks grown around a hammock hitch,
the screw deep in their flesh, held there, wedged in;
he holds his pain inside like that and croons.
He knows all minor keys so very well,
like second nature to him in his funks.
His wife narrows her eyes, then clears her throat.
Do you know something cheerful, happy, nice?
Sometimes he just ignores her best attempts
at singing him from misery and woe.
Her voice is deep and resonant and smooth
as chocolate, a bluesy, jazzy silk.
But she can’t understand what she can’t know,
and he can’t tell her how deep is this pit
beneath his feet. He wouldn’t have her go
to where he’s been and is for anything.
He’s working his way up from black to blue
like bruises that change colors every day.
Tomorrow he’ll be purple, yellow, green,
then maybe pink or teal, or red as blood.
He once found initials carved into
old oaks, woods trees, who bore them year on year,
the scars still there though smaller, never healed.
Is it his plight to harbor what won’t go?
She starts to hum that spiritual
Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen.
She opens up her voice to God.
He’ll sing her song, for once. Why not?
This is such an absorbing, wonderful picture.
I agree with PressOn (apologies I don’t know your name, unless that is your name). The characters are at odds with one another, yet there is an unspoken love that inexplicably drives them together. I love the stanza detailing the daily changes of his mood.
Yet another amazing piece from our Jane. WOW.
“But she can’t understand what she can’t know,
and he can’t tell her how deep is this pit
beneath his feet.”
Wow.
Thanks to you all for your kind comments.
If Hope is Truly Falling
Walk soft;
maybe you can
catch her.
But wait
for me.
’Cuz if she’s really
f
a
l
l
i
n
g,
we are going down
to.get.her.
.
Clever breaking together down into three words.
Yes!
Balanced Soft on Battered Limbs
We start with sway, obey the
bidding breeze, stop holding
trees accountable for anything
that falls. We remind ourselves
we’re all bent, not broken, sunned
and spoken loose, cracked open
to a quiet dawn. We sing on, even
when our fingers ache and voices
rake the sky for something more.
We pray for rain. We watch for sun
and moon and stars to light our
way. We say we’ll settle for this
earth, these roots, this trace of
truth in scattered time. We ache
for hope, or some other sort of
something that just might shine.
.
Superb
Oh my goodness, you are so amazing …
INCONSISTENCIES
They bludgeon the ability to perceive
Honesty.
They languish in the unknown
Regarding truths as falsehoods
And inaccuracy as certainty.
There is no telling what matters
Or how to make sense of anything
Yet the search for understanding
Overtakes the misguided notions
That flood the average mindset.
While She Soundly Sleeps
While she soundly sleeps,
sun shines on emaciated faces
whose laughter is fed by love.
While she soundly sleeps,
strange nightmares escape from slumber, stalking
a culture that prays to wake.
While she softly wakes,
pained mothers surrender bundles as their
young children embark on sound sleep.
So very haunting.
That’s the word. I keep coming back to read this.
Ten Thousand Fairies Tap Dance on the Roof
Troll bellies rumble.
Ugly ogres paint the sky gray.
Dragons roar flashing their fire.
Giants try to blow out the flames.
Unicorns kick up the dust.
Dryads dance in the trees
and fluff up their hairdos.
Tiny pixies surf on falling leaves.
Imps throw bags, debris, tumbleweeds about.
Elves spray water on the earth
so nymphs and mermaids can join in the fun.
Ten thousand fairies tap dance on the roof.
Oh, I love this scene. I’ll remember it the next time it rains.
Wow. This reads liker a combination of Washington Irving and Shel Silverstein. Wonderful.
Such a beautiful scene! ♥
I don’t think I’d like to see a dryad dancing anywhere, but this is lovely just the same.
Proof of What Has Been
(from Day 12, “Dig”)
Her dreams incorporate details of life—
skin, dark and buttery, or lips so full,
replies from languages she might have known
or heard in film or books or learned in school.
Now she’s confused of who she is and was,
her early life like archeology.
She digs around; the closets of her mind
are cluttered with the her she used to be.
She once relied on artifacts to prove
that she had traveled, cherished a career,
but now she wonders if objects were gifts
from unremembered friends, no longer here.
The big things that she thought informed a life—
the job, the kids, accomplishments, rewards—
are not in evidence, run through the sieve
of her forgetfulness. What’s left is words
that come in lines and phrases, bittersweet,
that speak to her in pictures of her past,
that give her faith, lay selfhood at her feet
that move past memory and hold her fast.
She didn’t guess she’d live so long, not end
but linger, seeking proof of what has been.
This is powerful writing. The phrase, “sieve of her forgetfulness,” echoes.
Thanks so much for the comment, William. I’ve enjoyed you all month.
I really don’t know how you manage such excellence time after time after time. Wow.
A line from a poem for the challenge on the 19th, Ouch!!
Now I’m Nearing Sixty Years
On a hot august day in fifty-four
I was born into this world
But mama already had a boy
I was supposed to be a girl
When the doctor handed me to her
The man-proof was plain to see
I looked my mama straight in the eyes
And she fell in love with me
Six years later I took a little trip
Down to Grandpa’s place
Something about that little house
And my Grandmother’s grace
Made me want to move in with them
But Mama told me no
So I ran to the woods and hid from her
That day, she let me go
Left that home in seventy-three
A Zoomie’s life to live
Roamed the world for Uncle Sam
Two decades I would give
Along the way I met my wife
We made a family
Hung up the Blue in ninety-four
A civilian I would be
Settled down in the Panhandle
White sands and emerald sea
Kids all grown and on their own
Just the wife and me
Now I’m nearing sixty years
Wish I could slow things down
Still growing old is kind of cool
As long as she’s around
So endearing!
NESTLED IN SAFETY
(a shadorma)
Awakened
again by nightmares,
she reached out.
The distance
was closed by his voice as he
held her with his words.
2013-04-29
P. Wanken
* “nestled in safety” taken from Day 3’s poem: “Fledgling (Love) Bird”
Paula, this is gorgeous. So deep …
“Held her with his words” is a superb phrase; conjures up all sorts of pictures.
Open Arms
to welcome
to hug
to carry something
big heart
giving
Closed arms or folded across chest
imply distancing
nothing to give at this time
going inside to walk about
perhaps to search deep caverns
Open, closed
closed, open
Suggest the pulse of the heart pumping
A balanced life
Open, closed
closed, open.
This even feels like a heartbeat. I like it very much.
Prompt:
Choose a line from one of your poems and use it as the title.
As She Pulls Into the Driveway
(from my April 12 poem)
He didn’t tell her
he called in sick today;
he needed the time
to think things through.
He didn’t tell her
why he started to pray;
he asked for blessings
with what he’ll do.
He didn’t tell her
where the money’s going;
the car interrupts him
quarter past 4.
He didn’t tell her
his surprise was a ring;
she turns the knob then she
pushes the door.
Very nice, including the little surprise at the end.
Thank you! I enjoyed the suspense while writing it myself.
THUNDER’S RUMBLE
A haunting calling from – somewhere
A hot and cold, colliding glare
Jupiter’s, rumbling grand emissions
Fireworks of a master magician
We may run like ‘scardy cats’
But yonder, someone’s up to bat
Crowds of clouds are cheering on
Booms,of roaring victory songs
Trees are wailing tears with tweets
Cliffs,have paralyzing pleats
And as the rain just needles on
What’s on earth,- tries staying strong
Thrashing waves join in the bloom
Sparing nothing, in the flume
Nature, dressed in a powerful armor
Forces us to stop our clamor
Reminding us of whose in charge
As we humbly push our barge
And soon , its bored and loses speed
Disappearing through the reed
Wonder struck we heave a sigh
Mindful lessons to apply—
He thinks I’m sexy
in my tight black running shorts, sparrow legs
flailing down main street in the rain. The crowd
is cheering us on in a great wave, loud
as the blood in my ears, as the great kegs
of beer rolling to the pub. My side begs
me to slow down, but my mind is unbowed
willing each step forward. And I am proud
to be here, drinking life down to the dregs.
And there he is, as if by accident,
beneath a black umbrella, not looking
at me, one hand at some woman’s back. We
play this game in public, doing things meant
to suggest we don’t care. But he’s burning!
I bend over, and let him yearn for me.
I think this poem is sexy.
~I Thank You~
I thank God for sending you to me
I thank you for insulting me
That unfateful morning opened my eyes
I am not all left brain I realized
Hurtful words you left behind
Words cutting like knife that bind
My right brain awaken from deep sleep
Express myself through poems I did
Amateur I might be in this field
English being not my main speech
Strangers appreciating my neophyte yield
Extremely grateful that God sent me thee
PAPER TRAILS
Light white notes gather
A flock of words to take flight
face up still waiting
face up still waiting
flutter at the word’s edges
Gravity takes hold
Gravity takes hold
Paper trail calls the Buddha
Wisdom lays around
Wisdom lays around
the note trail knows the Way here
Light white notes gather
I guess I’m influenced by the “Buddha” allusion, but this feels a lot like haiku to me.
WHY?!
The fading writing stares rudely at me
Bleeding words that rip and scream
Leaving me alone to face
What in their minds, is such disgrace !
Love that feeds you in the womb
How can that love change its tune?
Their tunnel vision is hard to digest
Entangled veins are stifling my quest
I’m in a glass house, they have rocks in hand
How can I survive this stifling quicksand
Whose made the rules they proudly claim
And when I protest, they change the game?
How can I firmly stand my ground?
Generations of controlling x genes
A cancer feeds hippocratic dreams
With handcuffs ready they come disguised
My passionate lamb to sacrifice
But my mind and soul will never oblige
Why should I have to pay the price?
Why ?why ? why?
GIVE ME WINTERTIME
All around
the Lake of the Woods,
heaven hosts
cold and hope
here, in the little chimney
of Minnesota.
“flirting with your synaptic waves”
Images pop in and out –
barely touching some,
lingering on others … a caress…
Sparks fly
when the right one is found
firing up the drive
ready to move beyond flirtation,
ready for the next step…
serious.
Nicely done. Pardon me while I look for a fan.
THE BONEYARD IS LURKING
My creaking
joints all testify:
all must die
by and by
and, even so, so must I.
So ends this seeking.
I too have been addicted to the shadorma as of late. Well done, this and the other.
I like this one so much, especially the last line that makes meaning of all that creaking we do. A great shadorma.
Thank you. Believe it or not, this actually was inspired by Ogden Nash’s verse about a good dog.
“an earthquake made by man’s fire”
Jellied legs barely gave support,
her insides quaked
and a slow burn started to fan outward –
all he did was look at her.
She Steps Spring’s Dance
She steps Springs dance
As from Winter she awakes
The green shoots catch the beat
Contagious
Yellow, purple, blues choreography
costume the flower heads
Catkins writhe in time, in rhythm
Birds whistle as they build
Leaf attends this ball of growth,
implies that Blossom is on her way
Nature singing out to her children
Dance with me, dance this day.
Oboyoboy (or maybe it should be ogirlogirl). Wonderful!
LET THEM LOOSE LOVE
Children:
epitome
of possibility;
with all, the world will stand or fall.
Show them.
yes
ARCHETYPES AND RUBBLE
So they book me on trumped-up charges.
A bad dream.
One artificial bright light suspends
above my skull, blinding the eyes.
Everything else too dim to remember.
Isn’t everybody’s mind
a dark alley with padlocked doors
you’re scared to open;
others hung ajar so you can hear
the footfall of pulp fiction,
hoof-beats of medieval romance
from somewhere inside?
A fire-escape cat screeches.
The rats that are your hungers
skitter and claw.
And far above, stars abide
in a dark
no inquisitor can touch
with his magnum flashes.
No way will I talk.
Brrr…. chilling picture, effectively done.
ON OLDER ROADS FROM SLOWER TIMES
I thought I felt a gust of wind
while walking down an ancient road.
Confused, I stopped my meandering mode
to gaze at trees whose limbs were still.
The snow was falling; winter’s chill
was boring deep into my clothes.
Ahead, the old macadam rose
to meet a wall of settling night.
Long I lingered, hoping to sight
the source of agitated air.
But no, the silent woodland there
refused to show its muted heart.
The darkness came. I had to start
for home, to where my blood could melt.
I walked the way again and felt
nary a single breath of wind.
really like this imagery
Life is frustratingly full of these elusive breaths of wind.
I remember that line well.
This should be a classic. Bravo!
Oh, lovely…a sort of Stopping By the Woods….without the horse.
Lips Combined
Twisting branches gather
follow follow me
her finger gestures swallow him
they bring him to his knees
With lips so roaring red
her silky dress hangs bare
her shoe less feet
make his heart beat
his kindness oh so rare
As the birds fly off in flight
the sun it hangs low in the sky
their shadows play along
making scenes of times gone by
Lay your hands on me
she called out to him
shelter me with your love
as the rain fell from above
I love this. The lines are music. Images are vibrant, especially the one of shadows playing.
Beautiful
The Next Great Adventure
Opening the door
this morning
devoid of song
I almost
would come into the room
where the sun comes in
and I wonder about that.
Rain is auspicious,
a different thing.
It’s all over now — but still
if the way had been clear….
Some give up altogether. I go on.
At least the marigolds
covered the road,
creating a new path
as one dimly remembered
more than any other.
That memory of that moment,
indeterminate as clouds —
this is everything!
Where have you gone
from ghosts and weeping?
Without breaking down and screaming,
it seems uncertain.
Darkness.
I decided to have fun taking it further and making a whole poem out of lines from previous poems written this April. (It’s nonsense, of course — but I hope that it almost makes sense!)
Mission accomplished!
Under the Full Moon
Fading world
Transforming, anew.
Familiar
Blue and grey
Shadows creeping back to life,
Under the full moon.
Lovely. It recalls for me a favorite old song, Blue Shadows on the Trail.
very nice. thank you
I apologise – The opening of this “poem” (?) has not been used this April – but has appeared in the past.
Dear Ringo,
Hey Bro! That was some game and we got the sweep.
Something to smile about for a change. My ma phoned.
D ‘ya have to be such a hard-ass? Break out some green
and cut my family some slack, would ya? While yer at it,
why not cut me some slack? I am not now nor have I ever
been a Mets fan. Sure, my Grandpa was a Dodgers fan but
he’s long dead and they are long gone. I live in Queens ‘cos
I’ve always lived in Queens. My apartment is small ‘cos unlike
you, I ain’t making diddly to speak of. As to how I make it – well,
no I never talk about it. Wanna know why? You! That’s why! Back
in 10th grade you said I’d get now-where in life – you ass! You said
I’d be lucky to get a job on the Roosevelt island Tramway – going
no-where every day for a city pittance and a pension. Well guess
what? I was lucky. That’s what I do. I drive the Tramway – back and
forward all day everyday – I’m just lucky my supervisor is a yanks
fan and cuts me some slack on my roster. So go ahead and crow,
big time taxi driver. Let’s face it; you do the same damn job, you
just vary the route.
Pick me up at 6 and how about breaking out yer moth-eaten bill fold?
Yours setting the record straight,
Moosehead
I’m pleased to know more about Ringo.
Thanks Rosemary
I will perhaps set accidental fire to his cooking oil
I will perhaps forget to lock the gate
I will perhaps overlook the sweet spring and dip his cup from the bitter
I will perhaps loosen my tongue at the washing house
Perhaps when I walk to the market
I will keep walking to my sister’s house
Perhaps I will call to her
To lay down her mill and come out
Perhaps many will join us
We will carry our water jugs further down the road
Thatch new roofs
Build new ovens
Be the first to eat what comes out of them
No longer live off our husbands’ scraps
I felt inclined to scribble a bit prose – sorry it turned out to be rather long!
Cats, Poetry & Death #56
(A return to The Repository of All Knowledge – previously visited in #12 & #41)
Where Cats Speak Every Language.
In the gardens of The Repository of All Knowledge I sat contemplating the works Du Fu
– Poet Sage of the 8th century Tang Dynasty -as read by a rather severe looking ginger and white tomcat, in lieu, it seemed of the Maestro himself who was resting – weary from debating syllabic forms with Du Fu who strived a century later to emulate the former….
…I fell asleep, lulled by the ancient Chinese and awoke to witness a grey Persian arguing whether it was not rather, nobler in the mind to take a nap with the Bard of Stratford himself.
Cats and Poets came and went as I drowsed on a grassy knoll wondering if I shouldn’t read something from the Repository or whether, indeed, the Persian feline was quite right in his assertion.
I was awoken again by The Librarian himself who ushered me back along the cobbled path
and through the great French windows in to the Repository. He pointed to a tome of some stature on a high shelf and the adjacent ladder and asked if I would be so kind as to bring it down for him. On completing the task, the Master of All Knowledge set the book on a lectern, carefully opened it at a page that seemed well-thumbed and proceed to read.
I recognised the poem as the work of Goethe – considered by many in this hallowed place to be the most melancholy and at times miserable, if not surly of the Romantic Poets in residence at this haven Beyond The Light. The words rang bells of joy in my mind and soul although the Old German was testing on my ears. The Librarian read with such fervour and cadence that it was impossible not to be swept away on a cloud of romanticism and dream-like musings of love sublime…
When he had finished he stared at me in that way that I had become accustomed to when the felines expected to be either paid a compliment or asked to continue. Instead I simple asked if there was a language that was not spoken here. The aged one looked disappointed, but merely for a fleeting second, as he stated categorically that all words of all men were known by all the cats that served The Books.
I thanked him and as I rose to leave and he handed me a small leather-bound volume, with the comment “Something to keep you busy.”
I strolled back into the garden and sat on a bench with a young girl who was listening to a half-white tabby reciting Plath and looked at the tome – the pages were blank; on the cover it simple said The Complete Works of Me, Volume II. I held it to my chest beneath my folded hands and let the oohs and aahs of the girl lull me back to sleep.
Iain
i’m gonna miss your imagination when April is gone!
Thank you. Fear not, I am returning from the wilderness of song writing (I may visit it occasionally) and thus will be here on Wednesdays again after a couple of years break of same. I can also be found weekly at Poetic Bloomings. Hmmmm…I need one more prompt a week, I fancy doing three…suggestions on a postcard please…
Glad to know you have a new book to fill!
FEASTING
Just beyond the page is a poet
Crafting sage mysteries with his pen.
Mixing, swirling imageries
Daily, feasting often, then, now and again.
Bravo! The first line is especially vivid, in my opinion.
well said!
Come Ye come all! Let’s go out with a bang!